Читать книгу Sacred Trust - Meg O'Brien - Страница 11

Murphy isn’t at the door waiting for me, the way he usually is. While that worries me a bit, there have been times when he’s sneaked out with Frannie, my part-time housekeeper, and she hasn’t taken the time to find him and bring him back. Frannie has a family at home to feed at night, and she’s often in a hurry. Murphy doesn’t stay gone for long, at any rate. He likes keeping an eye on me, like a mom who thinks her toddler, once out of sight, must be up to no good. I figure he’ll show pretty soon.

Dropping my purse on a table in the hallway, I head for the kitchen, seeking a glass of wine. The kitchen sparkles in the late-afternoon sun, not only from Frannie’s cleaning but from sunlight on the sea. Tall windows look out on the Pacific Ocean from every room. A million-dollar view, people have called it. Six million would be more like it, in today’s market. For this—a house that cost less than a hundred thousand to build twenty years ago.

I have been envied for my house. Most of the homes in Carmel have names rather than addresses. Mine is called Windhaven. A major movie was filmed here in the fifties, and you can see Windhaven on the movie channel at regular intervals.

There is less beach now, of course, as the shoreline’s been eroded by recent storms. But the house and its view have been photographed by Better Homes and Gardens, Sunset and Architectural Digest. When Jeffrey and I were first married we moved here and opened Windhaven for tours during the Christmas season. That was before Clint Eastwood won his run for mayor of Carmel. Jeffrey, who dabbles in real estate, but whose obsession is politics, was working with Eastwood’s advisors pre-campaign, and we had tons of friends then—artists, writers, actors, politicians. We decorated with holly garlands and strung lights on everything, including the stately pines along the drive. A wild patch of lawn stretches out from the terrace of Windhaven to the cliff, and along the edge of the cliff are Monterey pines that Jeffrey and I planted as windbreaks. In terms of trees they are still infants, yet already they lean to the south from the north winds that buffet them all winter long. If one were to look carefully, one might detect how Jeffrey and I lean, as well, from the buffeting our marriage has taken over the years.

At what point, I wonder, taking a wineglass from the rack beneath the top cupboard, does a marriage begin the downward slide? At what point does it go from holding hands while walking, eyes meeting across the room in a secret, knowing smile, and an occasional embarrassing gush, “Jeffrey is everything to me”? When does the steady feel of aloneness set in for good, not just now and then? And when the distaste for flesh once loved and sought after?

It is, I think, a question—or whole slew of them—that only a decent glass of Seven Peaks can answer. I reach into the double-door refrigerator and pull out a bottle of my favorite Chardonnay. Opening it, I fill my glass and decide to take the whole bottle to the living room with me. What the hell, it’s been a rotten day.

And there is still the coroner’s office to come. I glance at my watch and note that it’s not even five o’clock, and I can’t see Marti till ten. What am I going to do with the next five hours?

In the living room I sit in an overstuffed chair, staring out the window. Not at the sea, which only makes me feel more alone, but in the opposite direction, at the street. People walk by on Scenic, many of them with their dogs. I am irritated that Murphy isn’t here. Why did he have to run off today of all days?

No. The real question is, Why did Marti have to die today? That’s the source of my anger, not Murphy. Not Ben.

Why is my friend dead?

And who would have had reason to do it in just that way? The hideous makeshift cross was crafted, Ben said, of four-by-fours from a house under construction at the bottom of the hill. Who had the strength to drag those four-by-fours to that spot far up the hill, nail them into a cross and then plant them in the ground—much less with Marti’s weight added to them?

Who would have been evil enough to paint those awful letters on her chest? And the final, inevitable question—why is the Secret Service involved?

The more questions I come up with, the less answers there seem to be. Nothing works today. Not sex, not wine. Chilled, I set my glass down and cross to the fireplace, laying paper and kindling, then logs. I strike a long match and watch the fire catch then build, warming my face. Sinking to the floor, I sit beside the only heat I’ve found this day. Outside, the rain begins again. I hear it strike the copper chimney flashing, the pitter-patter growing to a pounding, like nails, like nails in a cross, like nails…

It is only now that I am able to think about the rest of it, the thick, blunt construction nails tearing through her palms, the blood from them draining through the strips of cloth that held her wrists and ankles in place. But the alcohol has loosened everything I stuck way back there and had hoped to forget.

Huddling on the rug before the fire, I allow my body the fetal position it’s been wanting all day, and at last the tears come. There’s no one to hold them back for, now. There are perks when one lives virtually alone. One can cry anytime, and there’s no one around to hear.

Sometime after six I awaken from the stupor I’d cried myself into and make my way around the house, closing blinds and turning on lights. I wonder again where Murphy is and am more worried now than irritated. This isn’t like him. A blend of German shepherd and chow, he has a huge appetite, and by five-thirty he will usually come loping along the street and up the path, looking for food.

I miss his being here. Murphy is the one thing that got me through the worst of the bad times with Jeffrey. He has the pointed face of a shepherd, but around the neck he looks like a lion, especially when he sits in a lion-like pose at the top of the stairs, which he does every night, outside my bedroom door. A born protector, he won’t leave that spot till I head downstairs in the morning.

Going to the phone, I call Frannie, my housekeeper, at home. When she picks up, I hear children in the background, a big, noisy house full of laughter and good times. As often happens, I feel a pang of jealousy. I think Frannie knows this; she looks at me sadly sometimes, aware that, though I have more money, she has more love. This should create some sort of balance between us, but it doesn’t. “Money,” I heard Frannie tell a friend on the phone one day, “might make a nice down payment. But it sure can’t beat a good man.”

“Frannie, did Murphy get out when you were here today?”

“No,” she answers between calls of, “Get off that, right now, young man! Didn’t I tell you not to walk on the tables?” Her youngest, Billy, has Attention Deficit Disorder. His favorite pastime is performing circus-like stunts on the furniture, when he isn’t jumping from the loft in the living room.

“What’s wrong? Isn’t Murphy home?” she asks. “He was there when I left.”

“Are you sure? I don’t see how he could have gotten out. Did you close the door tight?”

“Of course,” she says, then, “No! I said absolutely no cookies. Dinner’s just about ready.”

I hear the exasperation in her voice, as it is building in mine. If Frannie is half this distracted when she’s here, I am thinking, it’s no wonder Murphy got out.

“Abby,” she says, “maybe he’s up in the attic, sleeping. I did go up there just before I left, with some things I wanted to store away. Maybe he was up there and I didn’t realize it and locked him in.”

“That’s probably it,” I agree, relieved. “I don’t know why I’ve been so worried about him. Just a feeling, but you know how it is.”

“Sure. I do that with Billy. He drives me to distraction, but just let something the least bit odd happen, and I’m a crazy lady.”

We both laugh. “Well, thanks. Sorry to have disturbed you.”

“That’s okay. Let me know, though, will you? I’ll sleep better when I know you’ve found the Murph. Oh, and Abby.” She lowers her voice. “I heard about that awful thing on the hill today. She was a friend of yours, wasn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“God. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

“I will be. I guess it takes time.”

“That’s for sure. When I lost Will…well, you know.”

“Yes.”

Frannie has a boyfriend now, but I remember how long it took her to get over the loss of her husband, and how much his traffic accident haunted her, making her unable to drive for weeks. She needed the money she made cleaning, though, and I arranged my schedule on cleaning days to pick her up and take her home at night. The time we spent in the car together helped us to bond. We became friends.

“So, anyway, let me know.”

“I will, Frannie. Thanks.”

Hanging up, I head immediately for the attic. Something about this still doesn’t feel right, however. If Murphy were in the attic, he’d have barked when he heard me come in, or at least be whining by now for dinner. There is something wrong, something terribly wrong.

My worries prove to be founded when no Murphy comes barreling from the attic as I open the door on the second-floor landing. Still, I go up there, remembering that once he fell asleep for hours on a pile of old winter blankets.

Flicking the light switch on the wall at the top of the stairs, I stand in a narrow pool of light. One of the bulbs on the two-bulb fixture has burned out, and only a small area is illuminated, a circle of perhaps five feet around. It has the effect of spotlighting me, while the rest of the attic remains in the dark.

I fold my arms tightly around myself as wind creaks the eaves. Old movies fill my head, and I imagine that someone watches from a dark corner, waiting to do those same things to me that have been done to Marti. I tell myself I am being silly, that my fear is only a hangover from seeing Marti that terrible way, an image that will probably forever be imprinted on my brain. Forcing myself to speak, I call out for Murphy. “Here, boy. Where are you? Murph? Are you up here?”

No answer.

Another creak of wood, this time from the far end of the attic, where I can’t see a thing. “Murph? Is that you? Murphy, come here!”

My voice is shaking now, and I can’t decide whether to go to the end of the attic and look, or run. Damn! Why didn’t I bring a flashlight?

Because there was no reason to think I’d need one. That other bulb wasn’t burned out the last time I came up here, I’m certain it wasn’t. I look at the light again, squinting, and for the first time I see that the bulb has not simply burned out, it has been removed.

The old celluloid scenes roll on: a heroine tiptoes down the stairs into a dark, dank cellar with a candle, electricity out because of a storm, thunder crashing, the killer waiting for her at the bottom, knife up-raised. I hear myself yelling silently, “No, don’t! Don’t go down there, dummy! How stupid can you be?”

God, I hate those movies.

There is no alternative, however. If Murphy is here he may have been hurt. Or he could be sick.

Too sick to whimper?

Could be.

Trembling with every step, I move toward the dark end of the attic, waiting for a blow to fall at any moment, for someone to jump out and strike me dead. My hands reach out to feel in front of me, like a person blindfolded in a child’s game. There should be nothing in the way. I remember clearing an aisle through the assorted suitcases, electric fans, hanging garments and boxes of old books.

My hand touches a form before me in the aisle. I feel the shape of shoulders, neck. I scream.

My other hand swings out wildly to strike whoever it is, while the first hand is still warding him off. Then I’m swinging with both hands, punching, kicking, going for the eyes with my thumbs.

There are no eyes. No eyes, no head.

I am seeing Marti on that cross, swinging, and here in my attic someone has hung a body with no head. I begin to scream, over and over, the sound low in my throat, like a growl, and then I am on my knees. In a tiny, still-sane corner of 49>my mind I remember an earthquake-disaster kit I put together and left on top of a trunk. Scrambling on my hands and knees I go for it, reaching the trunk and fumbling. The kit is right where I left it, and next to it is the backpack with pepper spray and a heavy-duty flashlight. I whip out the pepper spray, then the flashlight. Pressing the rubber button on the light, I pivot around. The headless body in the aisle is illuminated. A dress form. A sewing mannequin from my downstairs sewing room. It has indeed been hung from the rafters.

It feels as if all the bones desert my body at once, and I’m left with nothing but weak, jellied flesh, not enough to stand on. Part of me wants to laugh.

The other part wants to kill Frannie. She must have brought this up here, knowing I never use it anymore. But she knows better than to put things in the aisle. I’ve told her to leave a path free so I can get around more easily. Why the hell didn’t she remember this, for God’s sake?

I hear myself, inner voice rising to a crescendo, and finally I do laugh, though the timber’s a bit feeble. I’m beginning to sound like Frannie when she rants on about Billy leaving his toys all over the place. And, of course, she hung the dress form from the rafters to keep a path clear, just as I asked her to. I realize now that the form is not directly in the aisle, but off to one side.

Rising unsteadily to my feet, I put the pepper spray down and point the flashlight toward the dark end of the attic, where the noise had come from. There is nothing there. Only the pile of blankets I thought Murphy might have fallen asleep on. The bright beam slides across their white dust-proof cover. No Murph. No murdering intruder. Nothing but cobwebs and old memories.

Hanging alongside the aisle is my wedding gown in its protective cover. On the floor next to it are two cartons of photograph albums from the early days with Jeffrey. Next to them are two Seagram’s cartons full of spiral-bound notebooks I used for my journals till a few years ago.

I turn away, truly worried now about Murph. If Frannie didn’t accidentally lock him up here, where in the world is he? This has never happened before.

Downstairs again, I stand in the big center hallway and think. Maybe the cellar door got left open and he sneaked in there. It’s a small cellar, holding only the hot-water heater and furnace, so it doesn’t take too long to check out. The light is bright at the foot of the stairs, and one glance though the open door at the top tells me Murph isn’t there. While I’m wondering what to do next, my doorbell rings.

Puzzled, I go into the foyer and turn on the porchlight, looking through the narrow window next to the door. It’s nearly seven now, dark, and my neighbors and I have an unwritten rule between us not to visit without calling first.

Through the window I see someone I have never seen before, a young man with a shock of blond hair, in his early twenties, perhaps. He is dressed in jeans and a green windbreaker, and holds a leash. Murphy is at the end of it, head bowed, tail between his legs.

I am so glad to see him, I yank open the door and don’t immediately answer the young man, who is asking, “Is this your dog? Somebody at the house next door said he was.”

That Murph is my dog becomes immediately obvious when I reach down and throw my arms around him, and he—relieved, I imagine, not to be yelled at for escaping—laps my face, neck, hands and then my face again.

“Where did you find him?” I ask finally.

“Down on the beach near Eighth Street. He seemed lost, but I thought maybe he belonged to somebody along Scenic, or at least close by. I’ve been checking at every house along the way that had somebody at home.”

“I don’t know how to thank you,” I say, still stroking Murphy’s head and holding him close.

Up till now, the young man has not been smiling. At this point, his expression hardens. “Well, I’ve got two dogs myself, and I know I wouldn’t want either of them wandering around. Look, there is one thing…”

I stop petting Murph and stand, thinking the kid probably wants a reward. “Of course. Let me give you something for your trouble.”

He shakes his head. “No, not that. I need to ask you about this.”

Reaching down, he pulls the light brown fur apart on Murphy’s back so that the skin is clearly visible in the illumination of the porchlight. There, scratched into the skin as if by a needle or pin, the edges still bloody, is the letter A.

Murphy whimpers, and for a moment, my vision goes dark. “Oh, God. Oh, God.” My stomach, still half-queasy from this morning with Marti, lurches, and my legs go weak. The kid holds a hand out, and I grab it to keep myself from falling.

“Sorry,” he says. “That’s why I took so much trouble to find the owner. I thought maybe he or she had done this, and if so, I didn’t want the dog going home to more of the same.”

Squatting back down, I take Murphy’s face between my hands and talk to him as if he could answer. “My poor baby. Murphy, who did this to you? Who did this?”

“His head and tail were down like that when I found him, like he’d been beaten or something, and then when I was petting him I saw this…” His voice trails off again. “I can see it’s a surprise to you.”

My sorrow is replaced with anger. “Of course it is! I can’t even think who in the world could have done such an awful thing.”

They are almost the exact words I said to Ben earlier, about Marti. In the next moment I’m filled with fear. There’s got to be some kind of madman on the loose. Two such terrible acts in one day? That’s one too many for coincidence.

And the A. What can it mean? First my name on the hill where Marti died, and now this, here, on Murphy?

It has to be someone who knows me, who knows Murph is my dog.

That thought is the most chilling of all.

The kid stands watching me with my arms around Murph and seems satisfied that he’s okay. I ask him if he’d like to come in for coffee. He shakes his head.

“Thanks, but I’ve got to be somewhere. I’m just glad I found you. It took a while, you know? You might get some ID for his collar.”

“But I—” Reaching down, I check Murphy’s collar. “His tag was on here this morning.”

The kid shrugs. “Maybe it fell off.”

“Are you sure I can’t give you something for your trouble?” I ask. “You really went out of your way.”

Shaking his head again, he gives Murphy a pat on the head. “Bye, Murph. Take care.”

Halfway down the path he looks back. “You take care, too, okay? This is a pretty weird thing. There’s no telling what somebody would do. Somebody who’d do this kind of thing, I mean.”

My hand tightens on the door. “I know. Thank you. I really can’t thank you enough.”

I watch him walk through the arbor gate, with its many twinkling white lights. A fairy-tale scene, I once thought. It now occurs to me to add, “By the Brothers Grimm.”

I take Murphy to the kitchen, where he gulps down food as if he hasn’t eaten in a year. That, I think, is a good sign. While he eats I try the vet, though I know from experience they’re closed at night. I get the machine that tells me they’ll be open at eight in the morning, and a night number to call if it’s an emergency.

When Murph is finished eating, I cleanse the letter “A” on his back carefully with water and a clean paper towel, to get a better look at it. The wound is more superficial than I first thought, and his spirits seem to be returning. I decide not to drag the vet back to his office this late; the morning will do. After spreading antiseptic lotion on the wound, I take Murphy into the living room. There I hold him on the couch, his head on my lap, till he falls asleep.

Briefly, I consider calling the police. But everyone at the station knows me, and they would tell Ben. I don’t know if I’m ready to talk to him yet.

I sip my wine, now warm, and try to sort out the multiple shocks of the day. Only now do I become cognizant that Murphy still wears the leash the young man was holding him with at my door. I wonder where it came from. He did say he had dogs of his own. They weren’t with him, however. Does he make a habit of taking walks on the beach with a leash in his pocket?

Whatever, I should return it, I think, as upon closer inspection I see that it’s real leather and probably expensive.

There is only one problem. I never did learn where he lives, or even his name.

At nine-thirty that night I dress in jeans and a warm sweater and boots for my trip to Salinas and the coroner’s office. Murphy sleeps soundly in the living room by the hearth.

When I leave, I close and lock all doors carefully, to prevent any further mishaps. In the morning I will talk to Frannie again. Clearly, Murph got out somehow when she was there. Did she simply not notice? Or was she afraid to tell me? I can’t imagine that, though I have to examine the possibility.

At ten-ten I stand alone, looking down at Marti. Her body, on a cold steel autopsy table, has been covered with a sheet to the chin. Even her head, from the hairline back, has been covered, leaving me to wonder what horrors lie beneath the rough white draping. The smell sickens me. A combination of chemicals and death, I imagine, though I’ve never actually been this close to anyone dead before. Thank God, I think, it isn’t what I’ve read about, or seen in the movies, when a body has been left undiscovered for days.

Just seeing my friend like this is bad enough. In death, her skin is smooth and pale; she doesn’t look a day over eighteen. That, and the sterile white sheet, bring to mind our “cells” at the motherhouse, twenty to a dorm room. White sheets hung from a foot or so below the ceiling, separating each cell, or cubicle, giving the appearance of a hospital emergency room. Inside each cell was a bed and a small wooden stand of drawers for our clothes.

“Remember, Marti?” I say softly, my lips curving into a slight smile. “Remember the time you stuck hundreds of veil pins all over my bed?” The pins with their round black heads studded the white bedspread, and I had to remove each and every one before I could lie down and go to sleep that night. It was Marti’s revenge for my having short-sheeted her the night before.

Silly practical jokes, and even sillier because we were eighteen, supposedly grown. At twelve, they might have made sense, but…

“We were still so young at that age,” I whisper. “So naive. When did we stop having fun, Marti? And why?”

Children, some say, are pure spirits when they come in, full of joy. Emotions like fear, sadness and guilt are built into them as they grow. By the age of seven, children are determined, at least by the Catholic Church, to have reached the age of “reason.” That’s when, in effect, they take on the guilt and sins of the world. Each year from then on finds the child growing more serious, taking on more “burdens.”

Marti and I must have been late bloomers. We still had some fun left in us when we went off to Joseph and Mary. Both of us came from families that had loved and supported us, given us every chance to explore our lives and what we thought we wanted to give, as well as get. My mother was, and still is, a seemingly happy-go-lucky Irish woman, a bit plump and not more than five feet tall. My dad, a retired salesman, loves her to distraction. He calls her his little “butterball,” and he takes care of her and protects her as if she were made of glass. That’s because, he says, she’s really “laughing on the outside, crying on the inside,” like the old song. She carries old sorrows, he tells me, that she never shows anyone and won’t talk about, not even to him. My mother’s favorite expression is a cliché, but still true: “Smile and the world smiles with you, cry and you cry alone.”

Marti’s parents, both of them gone nearly twenty years now, were different from mine; a bit distant, though just as supportive. Her mother was a literary genius, hailed in the forties for her innovative style of writing and showered with awards. Her father was an artist, also said to be a genius. They died together, recently, in a plane crash in Central America, on their way to help children who had been orphaned there during a catastrophic storm. The entire world grieved when they died.

I can’t help thinking, now, that at least they weren’t here to see their daughter murdered. Life does have its small blessings.

Behind me, a door opens and closes. I feel a draft on the back of my neck. Big, familiar hands cover my shoulders, and I lean back to rest my head on Ben’s chest.

“I didn’t know if you’d come,” I say.

“I thought you would call me.”

When you had time to cool down, he means.

“I might have,” I say, “but something happened.”

He turns me around, and I see that he’s worried. Deep lines run from cheek to mouth, and his forehead is creased. Poor Ben. From photos I’ve seen he was handsome and carefree at eighteen. He’s still handsome now, at least to me, but it’s as if that snapshot of the eighteen-year-old has been sharpened by a unique new photo process called Life. His forehead is so creased from worry, it will be permanently so by the time he’s fifty, and his eyes have taken on an intense, cautious look.

“What happened?” he asks me. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. It’s Murphy.”

His eyes narrow. “What about Murphy?”

“He got out today. Somebody did something to him.”

“What?”

“They, uh…carved the letter A into his back.” My voice catches. “Into his skin.”

He puts his arms around me, holding me against his chest. “Holy shit. Abby, what the hell is going on?”

“I don’t know.” I push him away, afraid that if I start to lose control, I’ll never get it back. Turning to the autopsy table, I say, “I don’t want to talk about it now, okay? What have they found out about Marti?”

He shoves his hands into his pockets, as if not knowing, now, what to do with his arms.

“It’ll take a while to run certain lab tests,” he says. “But Ted says she didn’t die from the nails in her palms. Death by crucifixion can take days, and whoever killed her apparently didn’t want—”

He breaks off abruptly. “You sure you want to hear this? It can keep for now.”

“No, tell me. I want to know.”

“The ultimate cause of death, at least from what Ted can tell without toxicology results, was blood loss from an injury to the brain.”

“What kind of injury?”

He looks uneasy. “I think I should let Ted tell you about that. Okay?”

“I…okay.”

Again he hesitates. “Abby…those odd tiny wounds on her body. You saw them?”

“Yes, they were all over her front.”

“They’re on her back, too. I guess I told you. Anyway, the coroner says it looks like she was beaten with a whip of some kind. Something with small metal balls on it.”

“Dear God.” I look at Marti and my eyes tear, thinking how much she must have suffered. “Ben, what if she was alive, even with the nails in her palms? She must have been alive while she was being beaten. What if she saw and felt everything?”

I reach out to touch Marti’s cheek. It is cold as an ice floe, and I remind myself that this is only her shell. Marti isn’t here. She won’t be, not anymore.

The absolute finality of her death hits me then. Before this, I have been cushioned to some extent by shock. Now the fact that I will never talk to my friend again, never laugh with her again, that she won’t be at the other end of the phone when I call, or leaving messages on my machine, smacks me in the face like a rock.

Ben puts his hands on my shoulders once more and steadies me while I cry. My tears fall onto the white sheet like so many tiny veil pins, though there is no joke now, no responding laughter, no love.

Ted Wright, the coroner, enters the room. A pale, slight man with intelligent blue eyes, he gives me a careful look.

“I asked Ted to talk to you,” Ben says, “but only if you want him to.”

I dry my face with the back of my hand. “I want him to.”

Ted clears his throat, obviously uneasy. Though he deals with death and mangled bodies on a regular basis, he is a kind man, I know.

“Don’t worry, Ted. I won’t fall apart on you.”

His eyes behind the steel-rimmed glasses are filled with sympathy. “I’ll try to keep it simple,” he says, standing beside me to look down at Marti.

“The first thing, and one that struck me as odd right off, is that certain rituals seem to have been observed. Not only the crucifixion, but the scourging—”

He looks at Ben, who nods and says, “I told her.”

Ted begins again. “I’ve done some reading about this, and the killer seems to have deliberately mimicked the kinds of crucifixion deaths that existed in ancient times, including a scourging with a whip. A flagrum, if you will. Such flagrums were constructed of leather thongs with small lead balls at the end of each thong. It is said Jesus of Nazareth and others condemned to crucifixion were scourged in this manner until they were nearly dead. Only after this were they nailed to a cross.”

He sighs and removes his glasses, wiping them on his sleeve.

“Ted, what is it?” I say.

Putting the glasses back on, he shakes his head.

“I’ve never seen anything like this. I’m sorry, Abby. My guess would be that this is some sort of execution-style killing. Possibly to silence your friend, or to send a message to someone else. Perhaps even revenge for something she did. The words that were painted on her chest, in fact, would seem to confirm this.”

Ben tightens his arm around my shoulders, and Ted says, “Are you sure you want me to go on?”

“Yes,” I respond in what sounds amazingly like my ordinary, day-to-day voice. “Go on.”

I want to know everything, suddenly. I want every word burned into my brain so that when and if I ever meet up with the monster who did this to Marti, I will feel perfectly justified in killing him.

“Her back…the skin on her back,” Ted says, “is in strips. And the fact that her feet were nailed to the cross, that she wasn’t simply hung on the cross with strips of cloth, is significant. In reported cases of crucifixion, the very act of hanging—without the feet being affixed to the cross, that is—would cause death to occur rather quickly from suffocation. That is, provided the victim didn’t die first of cardiac failure, blood loss or dehydration. The weight of the body on the cross pulled the arms upward, causing the pectoral and intercostal muscles to be stretched. This led to hyperexpansion of the lungs and an inability to breathe. The victim would attempt to raise himself with his arms to relieve the pressure, which caused muscle spasms. Unable to hold himself in that lifted position, he would die very quickly.”

I close my eyes briefly, but to steady myself, not to ward off the picture. Ted’s recital is working. My anger is growing.

He shakes his head sadly, looking at me, then down at Marti. “In your friend’s case, as I’ve said, her feet were nailed to the cross. I find this significant. In ancient times, when the feet were nailed, it was done primarily to lengthen the victim’s suffering. It gave the victim something to press against—to raise himself against, rather than using his arm muscles. In that way, he was able to breathe momentarily. He would alternate between slumping to relieve pain on the feet and then pressing against his feet, in order to breathe again. The pain caused by pressure on the nailed feet, of course, would have been terrible. Eventually the victim, who in many cases began this terrible ordeal with loss of blood, became too exhausted to lift himself any longer. The respiratory muscles became, you might say, paralyzed. Which led to suffocation and death.”

He sighs. “This is a simplification, of course. There are other medical details…fluid buildup in the lungs and perhaps the pericardium, hypovolemic shock…I could go over these with you, but—”

Ben shakes his head, and this time I agree. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to forget this, even if Marti’s killer is one day caught and put to death. “Thank you, Ted. This is enough.”

Then I remember something Ben said earlier. “Just one thing, Ted. Ben told me you thought Marti had actually died from a brain injury. Not suffocation?”

He takes several long moments to answer. “Without having seen the results of her toxicology tests,” he says with obvious reluctance, “which will take a bit of time, that is my best guess.”

“Are you saying she died from a blow to the head?”

Ted looks at Ben, obviously miserable about having to do this with me. I would take pity on him, but I need to know everything.

“Please, tell me,” I say.

One of Ted’s hands goes to Marti’s forehead. He brushes it gently, as if brushing back her hair, though it’s hidden under the white sheeting. “As I said, I’ve done some reading about ritual murders, in particular religious ritual murders. What I found on your friend…Abby, have you ever heard of trepanning, or trephination?”

“I don’t think so. It doesn’t sound familiar.”

“Well, a trephine is a surgical instrument with sawlike edges. It’s used to cut disks of bone from the skull, in medical practice. The cult of trepanning, or trephination, however, is something else. It’s been around, off and on, for thousands of years, and seems to be making a comeback now, if you will. Followers of this cult believe that drilling a hole into the top of one’s head where the soft spot, or fontanel, was at birth brings a person a feeling of bliss—the greatest high one can experience.”

“Drilling a hole? You can’t mean they do this to themselves?”

“That’s precisely what they do, I’m afraid.”

“Ted, that’s…it’s sick.”

“I agree. However, there does seem to be historical evidence that this has been practiced by thousands of people over the centuries. Some believed it would help mental illness, headaches, epilepsy. Others claimed it gave them special mental powers. In your friend’s case…” He pauses.

“You don’t mean somebody did this to Marti,” I say, shocked.

“I’m afraid it looks that way, Abby. I found a hole the size of a quarter had been drilled into her skull, probably by a corkscrew-like object, such as a trephine.”

Seeing my expression of horror, he stops, waits a moment, then continues. “Unfortunately, the instrument used went too far—into her brain. There was massive bleeding, and I suspect this is what ultimately caused her death. As I’ve said, I can’t be sure, of course, without further tests and examination. But I suspect that whoever did this did it after nailing her to the cross.”

I look down at Marti again, imagining the scalp, then the skull, being drilled through, the horrible pain she must have experienced.

I try to swallow, but there is no saliva, only bile in my throat, and I am shaking. “God, Ted. Why would anyone do such a thing?”

“My best guess,” he says, “is that it fit with the religious aspect of this murder. According to reports I’ve read, priests once performed this act to release evil spirits from people who were thought to be possessed.”

I lean back against Ben, my legs too weak to support me much longer. The bile is in my mouth now, and I fear I’ll vomit. Reaching for a Kleenex in my bag, I hold it to my mouth.

Ted’s glance slides from me to Ben. “You should take her home, now,” he says. “Abby, again, I am very, very sorry. Try to get some rest. Put this out of your mind for a while.”

“Put it out of my mind? Ted, how can I? Who would have done this to Marti?”

“I can’t answer that, I’m afraid. Your friend was a well-known personality in her field. People like that sometimes make strange enemies.”

I can’t imagine Marti ever having made an enemy.

I turn to Ben, anger taking over. “How long, do you think, before you get this monster?”

“I don’t know, Ab. Carmel—the council, city administrator, angry residents—everyone wants this solved, and quickly. The task force is working on it already, including the sheriff’s department, the police departments of every city on the Peninsula, and of course—”

He breaks off. The Secret Service, he was going to say. But he didn’t, and I’m guessing that’s because Ted is here. Ben is supposed to keep the Secret Service’s involvement quiet, apparently.

“I can promise you one thing,” he says, his expression grim as he looks down at my friend. “I’ll do everything I can to find out who did this, Abby.”

I let him lead me to the door, but midway there I turn back.

“Ted, you didn’t say. Was Marti…was she raped?”

He shakes his head. “I’ve found no evidence of sexual attack, Abby. No, everything about this points, as I said, to an execution-style killing. It was the style that counted, I’d guess—perhaps the shock value of the terribleness of it, not the actual cause of death.”